


But I'm Still Here

by QueenofBaws (Sisterwives)



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, Gen, Heavily implied LexZex, M/M, Pre-CoM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/QueenofBaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the very first day, there was something...different about the two of them. It was a dynamic that would never quite sit well with the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I'm Still Here

Everything is wrong.   
  
You struggle to figure out exactly  _what_  it is that has you so anxious, all of a sudden. You can't put your finger on it, but you get the oddest inkling that you're dead. You're dead, and that can't be right.   
  
It can't be right, because there was no light at the end of the tunnel. No warmth, no comfort, no sudden reassurance that you were amid loved ones. There was no safety, no overwhelming rush of relief, nothing. And that's just it…there's  _nothing_. Are your eyes closed? You don't think so. But this darkness, this  _blackness_  makes no logical sense. How could it  _ever_  be this dark? You swallow hard, hard enough to hear it, and there's the faintest taste of copper in the back of your throat.   
  
You're definitely dead.   
  
But you're pretty sure you're breathing. And this only serves to confuse you further.   
  
"Get up, would you?" the voice is familiar, but you're not sure how. Somewhere, in the furthest corner of your mind, something is beginning to wake up. For the briefest moment, you can almost remember how you got here. "I'm not  _dragging_  you back there. Either you get up on your own, or I'm leaving you here."   
  
You blink hard once or twice, and suddenly realize that the darkness…isn't so dark. Everything's gone fuzzy, though, and there's not a whole lot you can do about it, aside from doing your best to make out the blobby figures around you. Almost as though you've done it a million times before, you push yourself up from the ground, slowly easing yourself to your feet. The world is thrown into chaos, at that decision, and everything begins to spin. But you don't fall. The grip on your arm--just a little  _too_ tight to be friendly--makes sure of that.   
  
"We don't have all night," hisses the faceless figure holding you up. " _Walk_."  
  
Then you're fighting to find your words, to string a thought together, to  _fight this_ , but you can't. There is not one iota of you that is up to the challenge of exerting any energy. You're dizzy and next to blind. You can't remember your own  _name_ , let alone where you are. And now? Now you're being forcibly walked somewhere by some _one_ , despite the etherial numbness of your legs.   
  
"Some Guard  _you_  turned out to be," your companion mutters, just loudly enough for you to hear. And there's a strange jolt in your chest, the sort of thing that says maybe, just  _maybe_ , if you could remember what he meant by that, it would sting.   
  
"Dilan," you say, though you're not sure how--your throat feels like it's been stuffed full of sandpaper and cotton, and your voice is breaking like you're a teenager again. He pauses at the name, and so do you, a sharp, stabbing pain in your head letting you know that you're on the right track. Your vision begins to clear, just enough to make out a sliver of his face, from under the shadows of his hood. And it is. It's Dilan.  
  
But you don't know what that means.  
  
There's the quickest, most fleeting moment where you're bombarded with bleary, tired images. Shared smirks, polished brass buttons on a uniform, a castle, a handshake. But it's gone as soon as it's hit you. This is Dilan, your brain tells you. You are certain of this. But you don't know who Dilan  _is_.  
  
He's still pulling you along, but it's different now. If possible, his grip has tightened, almost to the point of bringing serious pain. He does his best to avoid your gaze, increasing his pace as he leads you through this morose wasteland of neon lights and swirling nothingness. "No," he answers you, and there's a gruffness to his voice that you're inexplicably sure you've never heard before. "Not anymore," he amends. You walk in silence, then, allowing yourself to be led, wondering how you've yet to stumble over your own feet. You're approaching a building, now, some strange and alien skyscraper, awash in confusing swirls of black light. "I'm  _done_  with that life."  
  
His voice startles you, after having been quiet for so long. You turn to look at him, but the best you can manage is a glimpse of his profile.   
  
"If you know what's good for you," he continues, tone flat and unaffected, "You'll move on, too. Number V." And then he shoves you over the threshold, and the game begins, anew.   
  
The next few daysweeksmonths (because time in this plane is much too confusing to try and figure out) are spent surrounded by faces. Faces that you don't know. Faces that your brain is telling you that you  _should_  know. They tell you who they are, but the names are meaningless. You can't understand the looks, the gestures, the intonations, because you don't  _know_  these people, much as you know you  _should_.  
  
You've long-since come to the realization that you're nothing more than another body to them. You're just some muscle, some meathead, useless unless their plans involve throwing someone around. They have no  _real_  use for you, other than security detail, because you simply  _can't remember_. Your past, your family, your  _name_ , it's all a blank.  
  
All that you can remember is that Dilan is no longer your friend, and this is unspeakably troubling.  
  
You just can't remember  _why_.  
  
Everyone remembers at their own pace, you're told by one of them. You'll remember when the right catalyst is thrown your way. But your hopes aren't terribly high when a new body is added into the fray. There had been talk for days, mentions of Nobodies and Apprentices, but none of that meant anything to you, and you hadn't taken much note of it. It becomes a little more salient, though, when there are suddenly six cloaked forms in the room, instead of the usual five. Unlike the others, the newcomer refuses to remove the hood of their cloak. They seem to be suffering, much in the same way as you. They do not speak, and this perplexes you. Unfortunately, it puzzles the others, as well.   
  
There comes a time when frustration takes over, and the Superior has had enough. This is no way to run such an Organization, he says, not with two members as completely useless as these newcomers. Along with the neophyte, you are nothing more than a zombie, merely  _existing_  from day to day. You are expendable. You  _both_ are. The order is given to spar.  
  
If all goes according to plan, there will only be  _one_  inept Nobody to deal with.  
  
If nothing else, the others will get a good show.  
  
The Skysplitter materializes in your hand before you can give it a second thought. Combat is something you can do, regardless of your obliviousness. You don't need to know who you are to know that you can brawl. And that you're  _good_  at it. A glance in the mirror is all you need to tell you that.   
  
In all honesty, the fight is over before it started. There was no possible way that the newcomer could've lasted, when pitted against you. There is very little that you can see, of your opponent, from under the cloak. But they don't call forth a weapon--you don't know if they  _can_ \--opting to simply  _watch_  you, instead. And you can't  _see_  those eyes, but you can  _feel_  them, and somehow that makes it all the more important for you to end this, and end this  _now_.  
  
You can't even call it a lunge, really. You sort of just take a step forward and swing, and it takes a moment for the shock to set in, that you've missed. How the figure managed to sidestep you, you may never understand, but there's a  _presence_  behind you, and you don't hesitate a moment to jam your elbow back-- _hard_. There is instant contact, and the ephemeral " _oomph_ " of lost breath. You've turned and repositioned before the body can even hit the ground.  
  
There are a few muted groans and sighs from the onlookers. They had expected a battle, and had been given a schoolyard fight, at best. The blunt tip of the Skysplitter presses down into the felled Nobody's solar plexus, and you can feel the leather of the cloak straining under it. One move is all it would take. One well-placed jab, and the group's number would be back down to five.  
  
But you make the mistake of lingering for just a moment too long.   
  
His hood has been knocked off, you can see, his face turned to the side and obscured by a mess of slate-colored hair. He expects his own destruction, and when it doesn't come, he stirs, if only slightly. His eyes remain downcast the entire time, as though wary of instigating you further, but his face catches you off guard. He's just a kid. He's just a  _kid_.  
  
And though you know that you'll only be enraging the Superior all the more, the Skysplitter dissipates into the air. You reach a hand down to him, though you haven't the foggiest  _why_. But something, something  _big_  inside of you is  _screaming_  at you to cease, desist, and aid.   
  
Your first mistake was not wearing your gloves when you touched him.  
  
The second mistake was grabbing his wrist to help pull him back up. Something thrums dangerously behind your eyes when your skin touches his.  
  
But your  _biggest_  mistake was looking him in the eye.   
  
All of a sudden, it comes rushing back. Almost as though you've been physically _struck_ , you rock on your heels, eyes widening and head throbbing. You draw in a breath, gasping as though you've been drowning, only to just break the surface. Through the cacophony of your own memories, you can hear him doing the same.   
  
"Ienzo?" and there goes your voice again, cracking as though you  _weren't_  a full-grown adult.  
  
"Aeleus," he exhales, and you don't think you've ever heard your name pronounced so wonderfully in your life.  
  
In that moment, two things happen: you  _remember_ , and he falls back to the ground.   
  
Remembering seems to have been an easy process for you. You can't say the same for him.  
  
His fingers are knotted in his hair, cords standing out in his wrists and neck, and you swear to God you've never heard  _anything_ \--man, woman, or child-- _howl_  like that, before. The room echoes with the dull thumps of his boots hitting the floor, as he writhes, form bending and contorting in ways that shouldn't have been  _possible_. His eyes have rolled into the back of his head, you think, until you notice the strange glow they've taken on, and suddenly the room is  _alive_. The walls are crawling, the windows _melting_  from their panes, the skyscraper plunged into darkness--light--darkness, strobing with colors and images and  _sounds_.  
  
And it must be your eyes, because for the briefest moment, you could swear his face changes. Eyes yellow, jaw distended and pointed, dark glistening fangs and claws…and then he's back, a scared kid, screaming and holding his head. The other four have gotten their show, after all.  
  
The next moment, he's silent, facedown on the floor and eyes glazed. There's something that might be a whimper, or might be a muscle spasm in his lower lip, and he's deflated. When they regain their wits, the others start to move again. A cold arm on Xaldin's part keeps you from moving towards the other, again, as Vexen drags him out of the room. Now that your memory's back, you can't help but recognize the meaning behind the gestures.   
  
The Superior makes a point to welcome you into their Organization once more, as Lexaeus. If the other can manage to live through the night, he adds, Zexion will be joining their ranks as VI.  
  
For the longest time, he doesn't speak. He simply trails after Vexen like his shadow, silent and gaunt and everything you remember him to be.   
  
Only, he's not Ienzo at all. Not the Ienzo you could lift up by the scruff of his jacket, the Ienzo you had to watch over like a hawk, the Ienzo you could carry around on your shoulders and ruffle his hair and twist his ear when he pissed you off. Zexion is what would've happened, if Ienzo had been given the opportunity to grow up and grow into his intellect. He's older than he should be, by any logical means--the first inkling you have that this metamorphosis into a Nobody is more of a mental transfiguration than anything else. The pudgy roundness of his face is gone, replaced by regal cheekbones and a bourgeois jawline, wide blue eyes turned steely grey and contemplative. But there are shadows under those eyes, in the hollows of those cheeks. He looks sick. Sicker than you've ever seen him.   
  
Childhood awkwardness has been transformed into the oddest sort of grace. He's taken to setting his weight on the balls of his feet, a minute detail that could've gone perfectly undetected, had you not been paying so much attention. When Vexen notices it, the way his heels just almost touch the ground when he's not walking in his boots, he comments that the boy looks as though he's constantly prepared to flee.   
  
"Or to pounce," you mutter to yourself, but the thought is a fleeting one, and is gone almost as quickly as it struck you.   
  
When he's not hidden away in some dark corner, the old pattern begins to reemerge. You hadn't understood the injuries, back in Radiant Garden, but it had all made sense, near the end. At the first split lip, you grab him by the arm, yanking him in the direction of the training grounds. You're surprised when you're met with resistance. You've never actually had to fight him like this, before.   
  
He is a miserable fighter.  
  
For someone as streamlined as he is, you expect he'd make nature's perfect predator. Silent, agile, defensive. But he's not. He's weak and small and sickly, despite his new body and sharp eyes. After the second hour, you realize you're very close to simply throwing in the towel. You walk up behind him, heading for the door, and swat him upside the back of his head. It's a habit, more than anything, an almost affectionate gesture from the past, but something goes wrong, this time around. Either he's weaker than he looks, or you don't know your own strength anymore (both seem like perfectly plausible explanations), because his knees buckle, and he's on the ground.   
  
In the time it takes you to turn around, he's already up and past you. It takes another five seconds before you realize he's struck you. Your cheek's been shallowly sliced in one clean stroke, extending your lips into a half harlequin grin. And then instincts kick in, and you've grabbed him by the throat, and there's something unspeakably satisfying about the way the breath catches in his chest.   
  
You regain your wits before you can actually  _harm_  him, but he's still dangling a good foot or so in the air, his hands trying desperately to wrench you from off of his windpipe. You're disheartened (but not surprised) to find he has no pulse ticking in his throat. His struggling is lessening, by now, and he looks up at you, hair mussed but pushed back, and you're suddenly struck with the idea that you've never seen the entirety of his face, before.   
  
In that moment, everything is right and everything is wrong. It becomes clear the instant those chilly eyes are on you. Nothing could be more wonderful. Nothing could be more terrifying. You know what it is, and the thought is horrifying, because it isn't just some need for kinship, it isn't just some desire to regain some part of your lost life, but a pure and unadulterated   
  
  
  
Obsession  
  
  
  
isn't a word that you toss around lightly. It connotes all sorts of unpleasant things--things unbecoming of your character. You are  _hardly_  the sort to take to pining, much less  _stalking_.   
  
And yet, here you are. You had almost forgotten just how dark his eyes were, how intense. Nature had never meant for such a shade of blue to grace a human face, you're certain. You're struck with the inane urge to reach out and touch him, but you abstain. The last time you two were this close, you remember, you were dying. You have no desire to relive that flesh memory.   
  
His grip has loosened, but it's still tight enough to keep your feet up and off of the ground. You've never felt so small in your life. There's a jolt of something similar to anxiety when you realize just  _how_  small you really are, compared to him. He could break you--all it would take is a sudden clenching of his fist, and you would be done for. But you don't think you're in any immediate danger…he's had plenty of opportunity to pulverize you.   
  
You're eased back onto your feet, and the two of you seem to share a resolute exhalation of breath. Strike. Counterstrike. The moment has come and gone, and there's no reason for anything else to be said. He turns to leave, once more, and you watch his back until he disappears. You find yourself a comfortable sliver of shadow to duck into, and retreat in silence.   
  
It's more than just slightly disturbing, when you find yourself thinking about him. Not just once or twice, tired mind turning over loose ends, but on an almost constant loop. You've lost your interest in the others long ago--probably long before you found yourself in this world of unending darkness--but he remains a point of intrigue. It almost made sense when you were a child, he was so large and imposing, decorated and respected, what with his uniform and post. But you're  _not_  a child anymore, and none of that nonsense should hold any stock with you. And yet he's still the same as ever, strong, brave, and loyal. All the things you could never be, in this life or any other, not with your fear, your lies, your paranoia.  
  
In your eyes, he'd always been larger than life. As a child, you had been amazed to find that he could almost encase both of your hands with one of his. To some degree, you never stopped thinking of him in that way. He'd saved your life on more than one occasion--you could easily tick the instances off on both hands--never letting any sort of harm befall you, regardless of whether or not you deserved it. You've always known, on some level, exactly what it was you were dealing with. But hero worship is such a childish, pathetic thing to admit, and wild horses couldn't drag the truth out of you.   
  
 _You_  were the prodigy,  _you_  were the ones the  _others_  were supposed to be in awe of. As a child, you were capable of things that most  _adults_  couldn't wrap their heads around, and it only intensified with age. But while the focus  _should've_  been on  _you_ , all you could ever think about was  _him_. And that was troubling.  
  
It still is.  
  
Really, the whole situation is his fault, entirely. He was the one who made you remember, he was the one who took an unnatural interest in your well-being, he was the one who insisted you train with him. Things could've been so much  _easier_ , if he had only allowed you to continue stumbling through existence as a blank and thoughtless automaton.   
  
And while it was rare to double up, considering the group's paltry numbers, it always seemed the case that the two of you were sent out together. Searching for possible recruits, scouting out new worlds, sifting through the wreckage of Radiant Garden…it was as though the Superior was testing you, taunting you. It wasn't fair, not one bit, because when you stopped and really put your mind to it, he was still Aeleus. He was still completely Aeleus, and Ienzo was dead and gone.   
  
You would watch him from the corner of your eye--direct eye contact was a dangerous thing to risk with the worry of more memories, or that electrical thrumming just under your skin--and be struck positively dumb at the familiarity. The others are darker, bitter and cold; even  _you_  are just a shell of who you used to be. But not him, and it perplexes you.  
  
He's still impossibly concerned with the others, making sure that everyone is all right, everyone is safe, nothing is amiss. He shed his Guard uniform long ago, but somehow, his moral compass remains intact. No heart to feel with, but he continues to put everyone else ahead of himself. Particularly  _you_ , you notice.  _Especially_  you.  
  
It's the little things that get you, though, the tiny quirks and habits that carried over. He still acts so human…so  _whole_. It's a troubling thought, and makes you feel all the more hollow. Every time he helps you up, dusts you off, gets between you and a Heartless, you can't help but be reminded of the Guard who had kept you safe, so long ago.  
  
Once, you made the mistake of getting too close. The mission had been long and grueling, and by the time you were able to rest, you were almost asleep on your feet. You had more "collapsed" than simply "sat down," and you'd caught your breath long before you realized you were leaning against him. But you were too exhausted to  care, and his arm was like a safety belt around you, and for the moment, you remembered what it felt like to only stand knee-high.  
  
There is no exhaustion, now, though. You're sprawled out comfortably, lexicon open and balanced on your chest as you lay in repose on the settee. The vibrance of the whitewashed walls is too much to focus on, and so you take comfort in the cramped, minuscule text on your pages. It's becoming a habit, really, flipping through the yellowed pages while on the receiving end of such a vitriolic lecture.   
  
"Are you even  _listening_  to me?"  
  
"No," you deadpan, humoring Vexen for just a moment, glancing over the top of your book. "Not at all. But continue. It's unhealthy to keep all of that bottled up inside of you, I'm sure."  
  
He sputters something indignantly, but you really couldn't care less, and continue leafing through the tome. Perhaps he had deserved your attention at one time, but it had long-since passed.  
  
You had been brought into this world of twilight with no memory. There were no wispy recollections in the back of your mind, no waves of déjà vu, simply blankness. But then he had found you, and his voice had awoken something deep in your chest. If you think on it hard enough, you can still remember the icy needles of anxiety that had overtaken you. He spoke with the intonation of a doctor standing over a doomed patient, and somehow, that had rung familiar. You took to following him, much as you had in your younger days, entirely oblivious to that fact.  
  
So for a while, he had become your guardian once more, introducing you to the comings and goings of the Organization, making sure that you didn't manage to bungle anything too far beyond repair. You have the strangest feeling that he might've actually enjoyed your presence, during that time--that in some bizarre way, being heartless and thoughtless had facilitated the sort of familial bonding you had missed out on. But then that meatheaded oaf made the mistake of  _touching_  you, and you _remembered_ , and whatever trace of pleasantness that had lingered between you and Vexen was simply  _gone_.  
  
It's nothing to take personally, he had grown tired of you long before your despicable transformation. Not that it's any wonder, of course, you were a  _terrible_  child. And if you had to be honest with yourself, you're  _still_  a terrible child. You've never made any sort of attempt to make life easy on him, willing as he was to take on the role of a surrogate father. The fact that he can so much as stand to be in the same room as you for more than five minutes is a testament to either his patience, or his unbridled intrigue for strange creatures.   
  
You've always been of the opinion that it's the latter.   
  
A  _bang_! resounds throughout the room, bouncing and echoing until it fades away. It captures the others' attentions immediately--you notice them all turning to the source, from out of your periphery--but you don't trouble yourself with it. In this world, appearances are everything, and you have no interest in appearing too overeager. Not until the voices start, is your curiosity piqued.  
  
Normally, a fight between members would be ignored. Nobodies were aggressive by nature, and impromptu sparring matches seemed all too commonplace. But not this time. This time, you recognized those voices.   
  
It instantly becomes obvious why the others are so interested--not only are these two the most fit to fight, but they're the two you'd least expect to fight  _each other_.  
  
You lift your eyes from the ever-changing pages of the lexicon, regarding the scene with muted intrigue. It's a lesson you've learned the hard way--seeming too invested in the others' interactions is dangerous. Of course, it quickly becomes apparent that trying to hide your interest is a ridiculous venture…all of the others are watching raptly. It isn't often that one gets to watch Guards fight.  
  
Perhaps you should've been listening to the argument, instead of pretending to ignore Vexen, because you're at a loss as to what has the two of them so up in arms. Weapons have been drawn, defensive stances have been assumed, there is shouting and slandering. You can't recall ever seeing them like this, and you feel yourself drawn to the scene, as a moth to a flame.  
  
You shut your book with a quiet, dusty thump, and gingerly drop it onto the settee, next to Vexen. There's a pounding in your ears, as you slide one leg off the cushion, and then the other, but you have no idea what it could be, if not your stopped heart. You take to your feet casually, completely disregarding the confused questioning of your one-time guardian. The others seem entirely oblivious to your motions, and that's good.  _Very_  good. Almost leisurely, you cross the room, head cocked to the side as you watch the fray carry on.   
  
If anyone were to ask, you're simply bettering your view of the spectacle--there are so very few reasons you would  _willingly_  place yourself so close to Xigbar, after all. You have to admit, you're more than just slightly caught up in the fight (you don't so much as bat an eyelash when the Freeshooter decides to utilize your head as an armrest). And it's no wonder.  
  
As Guards, this is what they're trained for. The brawl seems mapped, almost _choreographed_. As a strategist, you can recognize from a mile away that they're much too evenly matched, this fight is going nowhere fast. The squeal of metal-on-metal rents the air as lance meets axe, causing those gathered to cringe in distaste. They get just close enough to land a blow before the other ducks away, and the dance begins anew. But this is no practice match, it won't end at first blood.   
  
Just as you have time to entertain the thought, the point is driven home. Caught off guard, a lance catches him right where his collarbone becomes his shoulder, quickly followed by an elbow to the chest, and Lexaeus is down.  _Hard_. It's in that moment that you realize just where your loyalties lie.  
  
You never liked Dilan, anyway.  
  
You're out from under the Freeshooter's arm in a flash, and before you can stop to _logically think through_  exactly what it is you're about to do, you've slid between the two of them and your hand is on Xaldin's face. If there's one thing you've come to learn about your power, it's that physical contact is not at all necessary. But oh, does it add a kick. It's almost as though you've finished some unholy circuit, pumping your illusions, your lies, your hallucinations into his head. You could break him, now, if the whim struck you. Send him reeling back into a world of his own tormented memories and regrets. But you don't. Such an act would be utterly deplorable. You simply want to give Lexaeus the opportunity to recover.  
  
The world between you and the lancer goes still, and for a while, it's as though you're the only ones there. You can replay these memories a million times, twisting them and augmenting them just enough to drive him mad, to leave him seeing ghosts for weeks…but you're not paying attention to your own surroundings, anymore, and that proves to be your undoing--it will  _always_  prove to be your undoing.  
  
Somehow, through the haze you've implanted within his mind, he finds the strength to break free, and you're caught in the throat by the blunt shaft of a lance. He calls it forth with enough effort to send you back a few feet, skidding to the ground as you fight to get back up. You were never any match for a Guard. It seemed inevitable, in retrospect, that he disarm you in such a way.  
  
Your ploy has had its intended effect, though, and Lexaeus is back on his feet. There's a slight stagger to his step, but he's back in the fray, picking right up where he left off. It's not a fair fight anymore, though, not by a long shot.  
  
It's with difficulty that you take to your feet again--you're a  _strategist_ , not a  _fighter_ , and simply weren't built to withstand this sort of bodily injury. But you think you can see an opening, a rift in his attention…you could end this fight  _now_. The Freeshooter sighs, not too far off from you, and mutters something about two-against-one, but you disregard him. That's the brilliant part of being a Nobody: no moral compass. Ganging up on the lancer isn't going to keep you awake at night, and being able to claim you bested him could only increase your standing.   
  
But you aren't even given the opportunity to launch another attack. He senses you coming a mile away, and doesn't bother expending his energy on a weapon. Instead, the side of his fist catches you in the gut, leaving you unable to breathe. The blow slams you back against the wall, and you fall to the floor when your knees buckle under your weight. You're gasping like a fish out of water, but your brain still isn't getting any air, hands splayed across your stomach. A voice in the back of your mind is stick on repeat, skipping like an old record, telling you "You should've known, you should've known, you should've  _known_ ," because he was a Guard, and you were just a sick, asthmatic little kid.  
  
Things have taken on a distinctly underwater sort of feel, and the logical part of your brain knows that you're moments away from losing consciousness. And you're no longer sure what's real and what's being fabricated by your oxygen-starved brain, but the lancer's weapons have dissipated, and he's fallen to a knee. He might've been wounded, you might be imagining it. The edges of your vision have started to go black, shapes becoming distorted and fuzzy.  
  
Before long, it's  _all_  black. You don't know if you've fainted, or simply closed your eyes, because everything is just  _gone_. But through the pounding, distorted thrum in your head, you hear a low, familiar voice pressed against your ear.   
  
"Can you get up?"  
  
After that, there's nothing. You can't remember ever feeling so at peace. You're dead, you're heartless, and you're sick. But you're not  _alone_ , anymore.  
  
Everything is right.


End file.
